


Dean's always had a thing for Discovery Channel

by ladyofthesilent



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Season/Series 08, Spoilers, future!fic, implied Sam/Amelia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-19
Updated: 2012-10-19
Packaged: 2017-11-16 15:22:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/540922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofthesilent/pseuds/ladyofthesilent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A happy ending which - who’d have known? - involves lots of schmoop and making love in the wee hours of dawn</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dean's always had a thing for Discovery Channel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zatnikatel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zatnikatel/gifts).



> This is for zatnikatel, who’s not only a very talented author, but also an amazing person. Thanks for giving us Redemption Road, and for a number of very interesting (and inspiring) ask-conversations :)
> 
> Beta'd by the amazing lurea. Thanks so much.

Dean’s always been a light sleeper, startled by the faintest noise, the smallest breath out of order. It’s in his blood, the spark of fear lit by his father an ever-present companion, and he knows he’ll never shed the warrior’s skin. Not even now, when his eyes open to the first grey light of dawn falling on the soft white sheets. He blinks, suddenly aware of the suffocating weight draped across his back, and momentarily tenses. He’s wide-awake and ready to lash out when he feels an insistent hardness pressed against his hip. Someone’s breathing down his neck, hot and heavy, and it is only then that Dean remembers.

His eyes travel the room, across the plain white dresser and pictures of flowers and a waterfall. Not a motel, just a guestroom, and somewhere down the hallway, his brother’s snoring away, arms clasped tight around the girl he loves. There are no demons and no angels, neither Hell nor Heaven, just them and what could very well be the first day in a terrifyingly human life. Part of Dean wants to freak out, yell and scream they need to _gank that fuckin’ djinn_ , but the body pressed against his radiates warmth and comfort, and before his brain gets a chance to catch on, he shifts and turns until they’re lying face to face.

Castiel stirs but doesn’t wake, arms reaching into thin air in a futile attempt to reclaim his human pillow. It’s strangely endearing, especially for someone who gets a kick out of reminding people he’s millions of years old, and Dean cannot help but smile a little. The angel’s lips are slightly parted and still swollen from the rough urgency of the kisses they shared only hours ago. Even in the semi-darkness of the room, Dean thinks he can see the stubble burn all over his jaw and the faint shadow of a hickey on his throat. He makes a mental note to be more careful in the future, but finds it’s only a half-hearted resolution. He’s entirely comfortable with this and part of him wants everyone to know what they share, how they belong to each other because Cas chose him, Dean Winchester of all people, over the powers of the universe and the gift of immortality. 

Cas is no longer an angel, just a man, and Dean still marvels at how warm he is, how real and strong and perfect. He unconsciously reaches out and touches his shoulder, a taut line of muscle beneath his palm and Castiel groans in his sleep, shifting closer into the touch. “Dean,” he whispers roughly, still caught in his dream, and Dean closes the gap between them until they’re pressed flush against each other. He presses his face to the crook of Castiel’s neck, breathing in the scent of sex and sleep, and finally believes this is neither hallucination nor illusion, not a cruel trick of fate, but the happy ending he was sure he’d never get. 

He kisses Castiel’s collarbone and starts thrusting against him lazily. It’s neither urgent nor passionate, but it feels good and he soon finds a rhythm that only falters when Castiel’s leg strays between his thighs, giving him something firm to rub against.

“Dean…” Castiel’s voice is rough, laced with sleep and only the tiniest trace of arousal. 

Dean kisses him then, tender and with an undemanding innocence immediately betrayed by their straying hands and grinding bodies. They’re still naked, bare skin over flesh and bones, and Cas slides against him effortlessly. They move against each other languidly, and Dean thinks of water, of waves gently rolling on a beach. There’s no urgency, no edge to take off, just the two of them sharing each other’s breath. Sometimes their lips would brush, casually, as if by accident, but none feels the need to deepen the kiss, to affirm something they’ve long etched into each other’s bodies with teeth and tongue. They’re both hard, but not painfully so, and for once, Dean feels grateful for his age and the maturity of a body that allows him to enjoy this for nothing but the reassuring knowledge he can be close to Cas, maybe become closer still. This time, for the first time ever maybe, he’s unafraid of taking something he won’t be able to give back, of using a body for its warmth and comfort because Castiel already has him, all of him, down to the dark parts still dwelling in the groves of Hell.

They’re starting to sweat, a fine sheen covering their bodies and the streetlights paint Castiel’s skin a shimmering gold. Dean’s gaze travels over the straining muscles of his shoulders to the dark pools of his glittering eyes. He’s long grown accustomed to the fact Cas always seems to be staring like he needs to hold on with his gaze. Like blinking could severe the bond they’re sharing, and it breaks Dean’s heart just a little, realising part of Cas is still healing, a raw open wound he desperately wants to stitch back together. 

It’s suddenly getting hot, the cocoon of their bed sheets a suffocating weight on his back and he kicks them off, his rhythm faltering. Castiel makes a pained noise somewhere low in his throat and hooks a leg around Dean’s hip, urging him closer.

Dean almost says it then, three words he didn’t know he had for anyone but Sammy, but then realizes they’re just that: words. And Cas deserves better than that, better than feeble promises and prayers no God will ever answer. Dean knows - _Hell_ _does he know_ \- that Cas, angel or not, doesn’t need protection. But if there’s one sure thing that he knows, too, it’s that Cas is also fragile, vulnerable in ways he’s ignored for far too long, and he wants to make amends now. Show him that he cares, always has and always will, every single day of whatever remains of their fucked up lives.

“Close your eyes,” he says, cupping Castiel’s face, “I’ve got you.”

Castiel holds his breath, movements stilling for a few agonizing moments, then exhales in time with his eyelids fluttering shut. Dean embraces him then, buries his face in the crook of Castiel’s neck and feels his now human heart beating rapidly against his chest.

“I know,” Castiel whispers, nuzzling the top of Dean’s head. After that, Dean’s memory gets blurry. He forgets whether they finish or drift back asleep, wrapped up in each other and safe with the knowledge that they’ll have each other’s back. Not only on the battlefield, not in Purgatory or with the looming threat of the Apocalypse and the Leviathans breathing down their necks, but even in this new life with its never-ending possibilities and awe-inspiring freedom.

 

***

 

When he wakes again, Dean’s feeling sore and there’s a tale-telling crust covering his thighs and stomach. This time, he has no trouble remembering what happened, and a small smile creeps across his features. The room’s flooded with light now, painting the sheets in the tender orange glow of autumn, but there’s nothing as peaceful as the image of Castiel sleeping, hugging his pillow while his ever-present frown is evening out. Downstairs, he can hear voices, faint laughter and the sound of footsteps in the hallway. Sam and Amelia are already awake, probably having a cup of coffee or preparing to take the dog for an early morning walk.

Dean turns on his side, ignoring his aching joints and screaming bladder to wrap one arm around Castiel’s middle. He stirs in his sleep, then opens one sleep-clouded eye and mutters something that Dean is willing to take for a “good morning”, though it sounds a lot more like “fuck off”. Unperturbed by his lack of enthusiasm, Dean leans forward and gently kisses Castiel’s eyes, the bridge of his nose and the elegant line of his cheekbone before focusing on his mouth. He kisses him with gentle insistence, gradually adding pressure until Castiel sighs against his lips and starts kissing him back. It’s tender at first, slow and shrouded in the aftermath of sleep, but soon enough, Castiel’s tongue slips between his lips and Dean groans, shifting closer until he has enough leverage to pull the other man on top. 

They’re content making out for a while, sloppy kisses and slow slides, when a knock on the door sends them crashing back to Earth. Castiel instinctively backs off, but Dean keeps him where he is, adamant on scarring his brother for life. Clearly, Sam needs to be taught a lesson if he thinks he can interrupt some early morning fun, especially now that the world isn’t ending anymore. Nothing could be _that_ important, after all. 

“Not coming in or anything,” a voice says that’s definitely not Sam’s. _Amelia_. “But do you plan on joining us for breakfast?”

Castiel’s lips leave his and trail across his cheek. Dean hitches a breath when teeth start nibbling at his jaw, an insistent thigh pressing right against his crotch. And if that’s anything to go by, they’re definitely not having breakfast anytime soon.

“Later,” Dean shouts, managing to sound more tired than aroused while his body bucks up into Castiel’s.

“Good,” Castiel groans weakly, and suddenly, his teeth cease their tantalizing scrape across Dean’s jaw. His body drops flat across Dean’s, face nuzzling into his neck, and only moments later, he’s back asleep.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean whispers, but the tone in his voice is all fondness, and when his fingers find their way to Castiel’s scalp, combing through strands of thick dark locks, he thinks that _yes_ , he can definitely do this. He closes his eyes and muses briefly on the irony of falling asleep in an angelic embrace that feels a lot more like a giant squid wrestling a whale.

 

But then again, Dean’s always had a thing for Discovery Channel.


End file.
